STORIES

Here are the stories about my children and myself.  Not all are from my point of view, of course, and not all of this is within my knowledge - yet.  So enjoy!

-

Site Map | Updates | My Creations | Interactive | Themed Stuff | About Al | Links | Misc Stuff | Word of the Day

Entry Page | Contact Page
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Tempest

“Are you stupid, child?” came the exasperated voice.  A tall woman with light gray hair glared down at a small girl, who looked at the floor, biting her lip.  The little girl was trying not to cry.  “Well?  Do I have to get into your mind and do it *for* you?”

“N-no...I'm doing my best, honest!”  A girl of five years, with shoulder-length gray hair and wide, expressive eyes looked pleadingly up into her mother’s face.  Her name was Tempest.

“Then obviously, you *are* stupid!  If your best can’t even influence an unshielded mind, you certainly can't be putting too many brain cells into it!”

The girl finally lost her battle, and began to quietly weep, believing every word her mother said.  Her hair hung to hide her tears, but of course her mother knew.  She always knew. She could get into the child’s mind any time she wished, and usually did.  She would always say, “If you can push me out and keep me out, I’ll leave. Until then, tough.”

Now, the woman curled her lip in disgust.  “Why in Uunnt do you cry?  I should cry.  I should cry, because my own daughter is a worthless wretch.  Now I know why so many Lunattack mothers send their children into slavery!”  She shook her head at a whimper from the child.  “Go to your room.”

Tempest was only too glad to escape the contemptuous glare of her mother, and slunk to her room.  She lay on her bed and cried, careful not to be loud enough to be heard.  She even escaped the influence of her mother’s mind, for the most part.  All that remained was a lingering disappointment and disgust.

The child’s room was very sparse.  There was a bed, with sheets, a blanket, and a firm pillow.  She had a chest of drawers, whose top was devoid of figurines or toys and whose drawers held her clothing.  She had a bedside table with a lamp, and a desk with her schoolwork in it.

Her walls were bare, except for a shelf where she kept the psyche club that her father had left her before he died, when Tempest was too young to remember it.

Her mother never hit the child, or even so much as touched her, most days.  But it was clear she did not like her.  It was evident in the plain meals that she served, telling the child to hurry up so she didn't have to spend all night cleaning up after her.  It was evident in the contempt in her eyes, and how eager she was to be rid of the child at school.

Tempest’s skill with her mind powers was quite acceptable for a Psy her age, but for some reason it was never good enough.  Her mother pushed her, and pushed her, and hardly a lesson went by that she did not berate the girl for not trying, or being stupid, or lazy.

And Tempest did try her best, always.  Each day she hoped that maybe she would do well enough that her mother would say, “Good job!”  Or even a mild “Well done.”  But that day never seemed to come.

That night at supper, Tempest’s mother did not say a word to her, only gave her a bowl of soup, and ate her own meal in silence.  When the meal was over, the woman looked at her little girl long enough to tell her to get back into her room, and begin practicing her thralling. Tempest did as she was told, nearly running into her room.

A week later, school started once more, and Tempest was sent away to a nearby boarding school.  The children went home weekends, but that was it.  At the school, the teachers were strict and no-nonsense.  It was a all-Psy school where the children were taught to develop their mind powers, along with learning math and grammar.

Tempest was in a class with other telepaths and thrallers, and was a quiet, attentive student.  The teachers there were not as mean with their criticism as Tempest’s mother was, but they were fairly blunt about it.  And when children were scolded, it was in front of the whole class.   The adults figured that it was incentive to do well, and behave.

When not in class, Tempest stayed by herself most of the time.  She was a part of the youngest age group allowed at the school, and there were not many others.  Most of the older kids didn't want her around, and the other younger children already had their groups and cliques, for most of them lived near each other and had known each other their whole lives.

And Tempest was just a middle-caste child sent to school because her mother didn't want her.

When the girl was nearly seven, she came home for summer break to find that a single suitcase had been packed with all of her belongings.  She frowned, carrying a second suitcase with everything that she had at school.  When she sought out her mother, she was in the kitchen, on the holophone to her sister; Tempest’s aunt.  They were just finishing their conversation when Tempest came in, and turned to the child.  “I'm through with you,” she said finally, pushing by the girl. Baffled, Tempest followed.  “You’re going to live with your aunt in Lunaranville.  Maybe she can do something with you.”

Shocked, the child stared.  Even through all of the contempt, and the scolding, Tempest had always thought that maybe her mother would someday realize that she loved her child.  But now, she was getting rid of her?  “B-but...but Mama...” she whispered.

“But Mama,” her mother mimicked.  “But Mama...  But Mama, nothing.  I've no use for a talentless girl who refuses to work.  I gave up my life to teach you, and to raise you, and you repay me how?  By refusing to work.  By being a failure.  Why would keep such a whelp around?”

Shaking, Tempest bit her lip, trying to think of something, anything, that would make her mother want to keep her, but nothing came.  And when the hoverbus came to pick her up, Tempest went quietly, the urge to cry having passed.

Aunt Tahis was okay.  When Tempest got off the bus, her eyes cast to the ground, Aunt Tahis came to greet her, and to take her inside.  She was oddly formal, as if not sure how to react to a small child, as she had none of her own.  She smiled at the girl, and patted her head, and showed her the guest room, where she would sleep.  Tempest thanked her, then curled up in the bed.

At supper, Aunt Tahis made polite conversation, treating Tempest much like a miniature adult who was over for tea.  She was civil, but distant.  Tempest supposed that she liked how her aunt treated her more than her mother, but for a very long time, she would wish to the gods every night that her mother would have a change of heart and take her back.

But she never did.

A few months later, Aunt Tahis met a man, with whom she fell in love.  Tempest, normally left to her own devices anyway, now very rarely saw the woman, as she spent all her time with her newfound boyfriend.  The child often had to make her own supper, either sandwiches, or something that could be put in the microven.  While before, she had gotten rather negative attention, from a mother who felt her child had let her down; now she got no attention at all.  And she was very lonely.

A week before school was to start again, Aunt Tahis came home and smiled her tea party smile at Tempest.  “Chillsain and I have decided to be married, Tempest,” she said.  Tempest smiled uncertainly.  “But we’ve also decided to move off-moon.  I'm afraid that we can't take you with us; we won’t have room.  But I've a cousin on the other side of the moon who says he has a spare room you can bunk in.  He’s a decent sort, he’ll see you’re looked after.”

Tempest didn't say anything.  In truth, it was not anything she hadn't expected, deep in her mind.  Why would her aunt want her, when even her own mother did not?  The child only nodded, and walked dejectedly to her room to pack her things.

“Good girl,” said the woman, patting her head.  “I knew you’d understand.”

Aunt Tahis’ cousin was called Psydren, and he was a tall, stocky man with nearly no hair, as many Psys shaved their heads to be fashionable.  “Hey, kid,” he said gruffly, when Aunt Tahis drove Tempest to his home.  Tempest nodded, and looked over the place.  It was a fairly small place, but it did have a spare room, that Tempest would be sleeping in.  The neighborhood was very poor, and it seemed that many different races lived here; even some Mutants.  “Well, come on, let’s get your stuff in here.  You go to school, right?”  The girl nodded.  “Okay.  Well, we’ll go to the local school tomorrow, get you enrolled.”

“Okay,” said Tempest, with a sigh.

It did not take long for Tempest to get her few belongings into her room, and to settle in.  Psydren was all right, but like Aunt Tahis, he didn’t pay much attention to Tempest beyond saying hello to her, and making meals, and taking her to school.  The school was a local public one, that had at least three different Lunattack races that attended along with a few Mutants who stuck together in tight little groups.  Tempest got no lessons for her Psy abilities.  The school was a fairly low-budget school, and only dealt with the basics.  Tempest did not like it much.  To the others, she seemed to be a fairly snobbish sort, being from a higher-income area.  Once again, Tempest did not belong.  She spent a lot of time alone.

She often asked Psydren to help her with her mind powers and he agreed, but half the time he forgot, in the face of more interesting endeavors.  Usually this amounted either to going on dates with the various women in his life (or bringing them home, and that is when Tempest had to stay in her room while they played, adult style) or drinking in the local taverns with his friends.

Tempest ended up practicing alone, and found that she did not really need any further tutelage to become fairly proficient.  She had the skill, despite the mean things her mother had always said.  She wasn't worthless.  Her mother had just been an old failure herself, so she had to make Tempest feel the same way...

As the months passed, Tempest realized that she did not love her mother.  She stopped longing for her love, and abandoned all thought of her.  Psydren liked her, but he didn't really have much interest in raising a child.  He was immature and easily distracted, and though he provided Tempest with the basics for the most part, he gave her little else.

And so she was on her own.  She convinced herself that she didn't really need affection.  She’d lived this long without it, it obviously was not necessary for a person’s continued existence.  She did her best in school, and got good grades.  She practiced every day with her mental powers, and found that even when he didn't feel like tutoring her, that Psydren was usually willing to be a guinea pig for her practicing.  Tempest liked him better than her aunt.  He treated sorta like one of the guys.  His buddy.

But even that did not last long.  The man started drinking more and more, until he was going out to drink nearly every night.  Half the time, he would not come home to cook dinner, and Tempest would have to scavenge whatever was in the house, and had not gone bad.

To his credit, Psydren realized he was no longer fit to take care of a child, even if she was eight years old, and brought her to another relative.  And then another, and another... for there were not many in her family that really wanted a child.  One already had children, who teased Tempest, and got her into trouble on purpose, for they didn't want another child taking their parents’ attention.  And of course, the parents believed their children on who had started what altercations. They finally got rid of the child, who had acted so “ungratefully” towards the people caring for her.  One uncle said he'd take her only until someone else could be found, and another was sent to jail when he tried to fondle the little girl, and she ran away and called the authorities.

It was then that Tempest was sent to Adamante.  At the age of nine, she had lived in at least six different homes, and none of them the kind of home a child should have.

---

I remember when Tempest was brought to the orphanage.  She was quiet and grim, but I was surprised at how learned and calm she was.  Her education had been broken, and her home life had been unpleasant, but she had one of the highest grades in the aptitude test that all children take when brought to Adamante.  She was polite and courteous.  And that was also something I wasn't accustomed to seeing in a child who’d seen so many homes.

From what we could find out, Tempest had been passed from home to home, among relatives who never kept her for long.  She would not say anything beyond that, but it was enough to get the general picture.  She was settled into the orphanage, and adapted fairly quickly.

Once she started attending regular classes, and getting to know the other kids, it was apparent that she had a fierce, protective nature.  She did not outwardly show affection, and did not even talk much, but she was always quick to offer a quiet word of encouragement, or to comfort a younger child after being teased by another.  Most children who are neglected or abused either become timid and withdrawn, or abusive themselves. Tempest was neither.  She was quiet and watchful, and fairly humorless for one her age, but she was compassionate and honorable.  And I told her so.  And I told her I admired her.  She smiled when I said that, and from then on, we developed a fairly close friendship.

Tempest was at the orphanage for several months, but no one showed interest in adopting her.  Most people seem to like adopting younger children.  I could tell the child was discouraged, but she never showed it.  In fact, if you didn't know her well, you'd never know she cared.

I did have her seeing the mind healer, but only a couple times a month.  The only thing that she really had a problem with was her self-esteem, which was shockingly low.  And I hated seeing it.  The healer helped a great deal.

Finally, when she had been on Adamante for about a year, she and I had a long talk.  I told her that I would like to adopt her, and give her a permanent home.  And a family.  She looked at me for a very long time before smiling, and nodding her head.  I gathered the child into my arms and held her, and I am fairly sure that she cried, though she did not let me see.  “Oh, I love ya, kid.”

I don't think that she would have argued, had I asked her earlier to come home with me.  But I don't think she really would have believed me.  I had to gain her trust.  And I had, through our friendship.  And so she became my third child.   My family was growing!

Sroya

When Sroya woke from the night’s sleep, he knew that they day ahead would be miserable, as it always was.  At six, Sroya remembered little but misery.  He had been in the mine-place now for two years, and before that, he remembered nothing.  He was not called Sroya then, indeed, he had no name at all.  But later, he would be called Sroya, and so we will call him that here.

The small cub was curled up in the middle of the cage with at least fifteen other slaves, as usual, as the bigger and older slaves always took the outermost places for the night.  And Sroya had not the strength nor size to argue.  The night before, he had managed to grab a few scraps, before they were eaten by the other slaves, and so this morning, his tummy only hurt a little bit.  He hoped he might get some breakfast, too.

He looked around as he sat up, everyone else still asleep.  The cage was not big enough for so many people; those inside could not sleep without touching at least three others.  Most of the slaves lay across others’ legs, or on their backs or fronts.  Sroya usually just curled in amidst them all.  At least it was warm that way.  The cave where the cages were was always rather chilly.

A taskmaster came in then, a person with black skin, who towered over seven feet tall.  Sroya did not know what kind of being it was, only that he was a master, and he had to do what he said or be punished for it.  The master carried a bucket of scraps, and dumped it in the cage, where Sroya crept forward and grabbed a few pieces before the smell woke the others.  Today, he was fast enough, and had eaten his scraps before the others awoke, and pushed him aside.  He crept under the mass of bodies, fighting for whatever food they could get, and finished chewing his mouthfuls.  Twice in a row!  That made the cub happy.

Once everyone had eaten, many more masters came into the room to let everyone out for work.  The masters were scary.  The shortest was over six feet, the tallest at least eight.  They were strong, and broad, with gleaming black skin that always looked wet.  Their eyes were yellow, with green reptilian pupils, and their heads almost looked like snakes’.  They had big hands, that could knock a small cub into the wall with one swipe, that could leave painful bruises if they hit you.  They carried shock-sticks that would burn you, and knock you on the floor.

But scariest of all were the mind-masters.  The mind-masters looked just like the others, except that their eyes were all white, as if they didn't have a spirit behind them.  They didn't hit you with their big hands, or shock you with shock-sticks.  They only punished you if you had been very bad.  Sroya had only met one twice, and since then, the threat of being sent to them was enough to make him do anything he was told to.

The mind-masters could talk to you in your mind.  They could talk, and you couldn't shut your ears to them, or talk over them.  They could find the part of your mind that made you hurt, and cause pain there, horrible pain, that didn’t damage your body so you couldn’t work, but was worse than the masters’ big fist, or the shock-sticks, or even the spike rooms, where the floors and walls were full of tiny spines that scraped your skin bloody.  They could put pictures in your mind of horrible things, and make you feel horrible terror.  They could “hit” your mind and make you drop to the floor, shaking.  The mind-masters were horrible.  Only hitting a master or being rebellious in any way would usually get you sent to one of them.  Although if you disobeyed an order to do something in the way of punishment, you were usually threatened with a visit.

Sroya crept out of the cage last, when it was opened, taking a moment to stretch out.  He hated the little cage, and hated being hemmed in by the other slaves.  At least when it was work time, he had room to move around, and normally didn't have to touch anyone.

Sroya used his small claws to scratch his neck, under the thin metal collar he wore.  The collars had trackers in them.  That was how he and four others had been caught when they tried to steal a ship and leave the tiny mining colony.  They had been sent to the mind masters, for four days.  The boy shuddered, and didn't think about them anymore.  He till had nightmares about them, and the last time was a year and a half ago.

The slaves were herded deeper into the caves, where no light from the outside shone, and pale lamps lit the entire place with their false light.  It was very dim here, and in all the other caves.  The masters could not stand bright lights.  They had to wear special clothes and glasses to venture outside.  Most of the slaves had not seen the sun for years; some even decades.

Sroya sighed as he was put on cart duty for the first part of the day.   Metal tracks ran into the caves, back and forth in the vast area between floor and ceiling, to everywhere the mining was done.  Those on cart duty had to push the carts back and forth, collecting what the miners extracted, and when it was full, they had to push the cart to the processing area.  None of the slaves were ever allowed in there, where the raw metal was processed into the precious stuff that the rich people made their jewelry out of, but there was a chute there that they were to dump their metals into.  And they had to be fast, else they got shocked, or hit.

Sroya and another youth had cart duty that day.  Sroya was the youngest child, but he was not the only child.  The other was a boy of a race that Sroya was not familiar with, but he was twice Sroya’s size and age.  He often pushed Sroya around at breaktime, so that he did not get any of the food.  Sroya stuck out his tongue at the older boy, who made a rude gesture back.  Then they began work.

The morning went fairly quickly.  Sroya liked cart duty better than any of the other duties, even though it made him very tired at the end of the day.  He didn't have to concentrate on it, only let the other boy direct where they stopped and started.  The other boy liked being bossy, anyway, and was glad to take command.  Sroya could then daydream, and pretend he was somewhere else.

Sometimes he was on a planet that had nothing but grass, and blue sky, and clear, cool rivers.  Sometimes he was in a house, with a grown-up there that looked like him, only she was a lady, and called him nice things, like little one, and cub.  She didn't hit him, or make his mind hurt.  Sometimes he was a grown-up himself, and he was with a lot of other grown ups, and they were all coming here to put the masters in cages, and to free all the slaves.  Sometimes his imagination was so good he could almost believe these things were true.  Although it did make for a rather strong disappointment when he found himself back in the mines.

At midday, buckets of slop were poured into a filthy trough, for the slaves’ lunch.  Sroya tried to get in among the others to grab a handful or two, but was out of luck this time.  The boy he pushed a cart with shoved him under the feet of the other slaves, where he had to scramble out to avoid being trampled.  A couple of the older slaves helped him get away from the feet, but most were intent only on eating.

But Sroya was not angry; he had gotten supper last night, and breakfast that morning.  Instead, he went over to the many water buckets, where ladles stuck out of them for the slaves to drink from.  This planet had no water, as the masters did not need to drink it, and so they had to import it from a nearby supply moon.  This water was thick, full of chemicals to keep it clean, and to make it drinkable for the mammals and reptilians that were enslaved in the mines.  Sroya did not like how it tasted, but it always made him not thirsty anymore.

The child drank his fill, then sat down to rest until they had to work again.

Sroya had to sort, the rest of the day, and he was less than happy about it.  The raw metals came in three grades, and they looked very similar to each other.  The child could not daydream while he did this, only stand still and try not to sort the metals wrong.  Slaves who sorted the metals wrong got locked in a spike room, and the more they sorted wrong, the longer they had to stay in.  Sometimes they had to walk around the room, until their feet were cut and bleeding, and if they refused, they got sent to the mind-masters.

He did not do that bad that day, and only had to spend ten minutes in the spike room.  He was thrown in and landed on the little spikes, whimpering as he landed on the abrasive surface.  He lay still once he landed, knowing that moving around made it hurt worse.  He was crying, very quietly, when they let him out, and he slunk to his cage.

Sroya never cried aloud, unless he was being hurt badly enough to scream.  The masters got annoyed if you were loud, and a lot of slaves got annoyed, too.  And unless the slaves were really hurting you, the masters didn't care if they hit each other or not.  He had missed supper, and so he could only creep into the center of slaves and curl up.  His belly growled for food as he closed his eyes, mentally telling it to shut up.

The next day was about the same.  And the next week, and the next month.  The days were all the same when you worked for the masters.  You mined, or sorted, or pushed a cart.  You usually got at least a shock from a shock-stick, or a slap from a master’s big hand.  You got used to the bruises and burns.

Sroya got sick once, for two whole weeks.  Sick enough that after five days of it, they even stopped him working, and sent him to the medic.  After all, a dead slave was money lost.   He was strapped to a bed, where medics began emotionlessly tending him.  Sroya gasped for breath through fluid-filled lungs.  They gave him shots that hurt, but made him sleep, so that he didn't have to feel his burning lungs, and didn't realize how he gasped for breath. He even remembered nice dreams.

They kept him heavily drugged the whole time, as they used their machines and medicines to empty his lungs, and chase out the virus.  Two slaves, elderly humans, died from the illness that had spread through the slave colony.  The younger, more resilient ones survived though, and once they recovered, were worked extra hard to make up for the decreased output.  Sroya did not like being sick.  Usually you got no special treatment, you just got treated the same.  You didn't even get any more food, unless you were about to die.

The months passed.  Once, Sroya got angry at a taskmaster’s scolding, and dumped an entire cart.  The entire segment of mine went silent, and Sroya bit his lip, knowing that he had made a mistake.  He did not try to plead, or offer excuses.  All the slaves knew that never worked.  He just clenched his fists and closed his eyes.  He felt a big hand twice the size of his head, covered in rough skin, hit him in the face.  He yelped and tumbled several feet.  The hand was a fist then, and it hit him in the side, taking his breath.  It hit him in the face, and body.

He spent the night in a spike room, lying as still as he could, and trying not to shake as he cried.  And the next day, he spent with a mind-master.  He was tied to a bed, screaming, as the mind-master punished him mentally.  When the night came, he was sent back to the cage, where he curled up, shaking violently, and huddling next to the nearest slave.  The slave was a reptile creature of some kind, and did not seem to care one way or another whether Sroya cowered against him or not.  For many weeks after that, Sroya did his work with his head down, and his mouth quiet.

The months passed once more, until a year was once again gone.  He woke to a noise he was not used to hearing; the masters’ strange voices.  The masters did not often speak.  They had voices and language that only they could understand, and relied on actions to get their point across.  But today, they were yelling, and they sounded agitated.  Sroya sat up, his eyes wide, peering from the bars of his cage, where for once, he had gotten a space near the outside.  He stared at the flashes from laser blasters, and listened to voices that were like the slaves’!

There was silence for several moments, before a group of at least thirty adults walked into the room, adults that wore no collar, and who were not masters.  Sroya looked bewildered.  He had heard stories of free worlds outside of this one, and half believed they existed.  Else why would he have tried to escape so long ago?  But now, to see people who were not slaves, or masters, was a very shocking sight.  Many of the other slaves felt this way too.

There were gasps of dismay at seeing the wretched huddles of slaves in the metal cages, and electronic lockpicks were brought out, making quick work of the powerful padlocks that kept the slaves bound in their prisons.  Sroya gaped as his cage was opened, and official looking people with yellow skin and big, pale blue eyes urged everyone to come out, and to come outside.  Many slaves followed orders immediately, eager to see the outside.  Some went dazedly, their minds awhirl from their world being shaken to the foundations.  Yet others hung back, afraid that this was a trick, or afraid that these might be people taking them somewhere they would be hurt, or killed.  Sroya was one of these.  And it took quite a bit of convincing to get him to leave.

Sroya saw the sky of the world for the first time that day.  Even when they had tried to escape, they had not gotten farther than the underground hangar.  The sky was a dim, dull tan, and Sroya could not see a sun, although the sky seemed to be lit somehow.  He was shaking, as he was led aboard a transport, and strapped into a seat there.  He whimpered, thinking he would be punished after all, and saw many slaves who seemed to think the same.  But no one hit him, or shocked him, or invaded him mind with pain and horrors.  And after a while, he relaxed.

He could not understand the language that the strangers spoke.  He only knew Basic, which was what most of the slaves spoke.  And so he did not know what was going on.  But no one was harming him, and the yellow-skinned beings seemed to look friendly anytime he caught their eye.  Sroya was very confused.

The ride took less than an hour.  It landed on a planet that was so bright that every slave there shielded or squinted their eyes. Many, who had spent decades in the gloom, had to close their eyes and cover them with their hands.  The yellow-skinned people herded the frightened people into a building, where there were more yellow-skinned people, but these ones spoke Basic.    They dimmed the lights, and spoke softly to the ex-slaves, assuring them that they were safe here, and that they would be taken care of.  Some, who had known only slavery, were completely in shock, being thrust into an alien world where people talked softly to them, and didn't hit them.  A world with bright light, and no work.  Some, like Sroya, were only very, very confused.  And very frightened.

One by one, they were taken into a room, and when Sroya saw it, he knew it was an infirmary.  He was to be tended, then?  This was a great novelty!  A kind person that Sroya thought might be female lifted the emaciated child up and smiled a strange smile at him. Her wide mouth spoke soft words in Basic.  “I’m going to look you over, then give you a medicine to make you feel better.  Okay?”

Dazed, Sroya nodded his head.  He watched, astounded, as the woman gently looked him over. The boy was bruised, as normal, and had taken a fairly severe fist beating two days before.  The medic ran a scanning beam over him and her eyes narrowed.  Sroya covered his head with his arms, but all the woman did was apologize softly for having alarmed him.  This was enough to make Sroya stare in amazement.

So much talking!  Even the slaves did not talk much.  The woman went over to another person (a man?) and spoke to him in Basic.  “Cracked ribs.  And not for the first time.  Some old fractures.  Couple new.  We’ll have to heal those.”

The man nodded. “Okay, we can do that tonight.”

“Then will he be sent to the orphanage?”

The man shook his head.  “No.  This one’s overfull.  Some of the children will be sent to the Frish Agency across the city, a few others to an orphanage on the jungle moon.  This one though, he’ll likely be sent to Adamante.  They've got a lot of his kind there, he should be better off.”

“That’s a good idea.  I’ll let the boy know about the healing, then.”

While they talked, Sroya looked around the room.  It was a big, wide room, which Sroya liked.  The tables had soft pads on them, and no straps.  There were big, green potted plants in the corners, and nice pictures on the wall.  One even looked like his imagination place, with the green grass, and the blue sky.

The woman came over then, and smiled gently at the wary boy.  “We’re going to bathe you, okay?” she asked.  Seeing that he had no idea what this meant, she explained.  “We’re going to get your fur cleaned.  So you won't itch, like I've seen you do, and you’ll feel better.  It is all right, little one?”

Sroya’s eyes widened a little as she called him little one.  He liked the name.  It was nice.  He nodded, and let he lead him into a spacious bathroom, with a big tub in it.  She turned a knob, and to Sroya’s astonishment, water came out of a pipe in the wall!  The woman looked at his astonished expression, and laughed softly.  “I bet you have not seen so much water,” she said.  “This world has much water on it, and so we can use this much to bathe in.”

The water was warm, and it moved around a lot.  Sroya had some difficulty keeping his balance in the alien environment.  He decided that he liked it very much.  It warmed his body, and soothed it, as it moved him back and forth.

The woman took a cloth, and some thick water (soap, actually), and rubbed the cloth until it foamed up.  He cringed back a little, not knowing what this strange "water" would do, but at the woman’s gentle reassurance, he let her begin to scrub him gently with the foaming cloth.  It smelled strange, but it felt very good.  The weary child very nearly fell asleep as the woman finished washing him.

After the bath, the boy was given a big drink of clear water, which he drank all of.  When asked if he wanted more, he said yes.  He was given a nice meal of meat and fruit, which he ate with stammered thanks.  And then he was given a drink that made him sleep.

It was then, that the boy was healed.  Badly healed ribs were re-broken and knitted together with healers’ machines.  Fractures were sealed together, and cuts sealed up.  Parasites, dead from the bath and its insecticide soap, were combed from the boys fur, now a light tan.  Salve was put on his bruises, and he was put into a room to recover.

Sroya woke to find himself sleeping on something soft, something he did not ever remember feeling before, without it being another slave.  It was strange to him, but it also felt very good.  He was covered with a soft blanket, and his head was on a big, soft pillow.  He happily closed his eyes and thanked the gods that he was sure were up there somewhere for these luxuries.

The next day, he was put on a transport, told that he would be going somewhere he would be cared for.  He did not want to leave, but he was far too timid to argue, either.

And so, he was on his way to Adamante Orphanage.

-----------------------------

I had been at the orphanage half the day, and had just got done giving two of the children over to their new mother, and feeling pleased that they had found a home.  One of my helpers came up then, telling me of a new arrival, one that came from a bad situation, but that’s all that they knew about it.  I went out to meet the transport and was surprised to find a hyena Mutant, though he was striped, not spotted, like me.  The boy looked up, astonished at the sight of me, and I knelt, so as not to make such an imposing figure.  “Hello, little one,’ I said to him in a low tone.  “My name is Al...”  I had not yet changed my name, and so I still went by Alluro.  He did not answer, but seemed to like how I was speaking to him.  He extended a hand, and he took it.

The little boy had bruises all over him, and I felt a flash of fury at who or whatever had put them there.  But I let none of this show as I led the boy inside, telling him all about the orphanage.  He surprised me by asking me if he could live with me.  I asked if he wouldn't like to get to know me first, and he shook his head.  I was very flattered, but a little hesitant to take such a traumatized child home right away.  What if he didn’t like it?  I certainly couldn’t just take him back!  But then something in me told me to take him in, that he would do best with me.  And so I did.

I told him of Cairo, and of Tempest and Cougira.  He did not seem to mind.  I told him that he would have to share a room with one of them, but that he would have his own bed, and he did not mind.  I talked with him on the way, asking him things like his name, and where he was from.  He didn't speak, and I did not pry.

Surprisingly, he did well with my kids, even at first.  I told them privately that the little one had been hurt very badly, and not to do things to startle him.  Cairo was okay with it, he just left him alone for the most part. Cougira managed to tone down some of her hyperactivity and talk with him.  The little cub did not say much, but he seemed to be content to listen to Cougira babble on.  I think it helped that she was smaller and younger than him, he seemed protective of her.  He’s a natural with younger children!  Tempest unnerved him, so she respectfully gave him his space, and let him approach first.  I was very pleased with my kids’ behavior!  And I let them know it.

I named him Sroya.  It means little brave one in the Thunderian tongue.  He seemed to like it, and I was shocked he knew very little about what he was, or what Thunderians were.  At first I wasn't sure if he was a Mutant, but after being with him a while, determined that he was.  I have been teaching him of his people.  I'm a Mutant too, after all.

Eventually, once Sroya was settled in, he began to talk in a quiet voice, but for a while, he only talked when talked to.  He wouldn’t say much about his past, and I got the idea he didn't want to think about it.  I paid him a lot of attention, and obviously I cared for him and fed him well, got him some clothing...  It was amazing how these simple things helped bring him a bit from his shell.  He told me once when I came in to comfort him from a nightmare, why he wanted to go with me right away.  He said he always would daydream that someone that was like him, the same race as him, would come take him away from the place.  (That’s what he called it, the place) who would call him nice things and not hurt him.  I cried at that, and just held him. Told him I was glad that I could be that person.

That seemed to be the night where he truly became my son.  It usually happens like that.  And so, Sroya became the fourth member of my household.  It’s starting to get big.  But I don’t mind.  I love children, and I love mine more than anything in the world.  I have the money and the means and the heart to care for them.  And so I do.

Tacey

The hatchling was no more than a few hours old when she was abandoned.  The mother, who had not wanted a child, had simply left her in the forest to meet her fate there.  The child lay facedown in the grass for several hours, crying for food, before her cries brought the attention of one of the various beasts of the wood.  It was a large tawny creature with a tan coat of fur, slitted pupils, and dark markings on its face.  A pretty beast, but a predator, whose keen ears had picked up the infant’s cry.

The feline beast, once called a cougar, poked its head carefully from the bush it was hiding behind and sniffed the air.  Only the young smell.  No adults around.  Easy prey.  Snarling softly, the beast darted forward and grabbed the infant by the tail.

Not far away, but upwind of this little scene, two hunters lurked.  They had been tracking the cougar for an hour now, and while normally they would not hunt such a fierce creature for a meal, prey had been scarce, and they needed food.  The two heavily-furred beings grunted softly on finally seeing the creature having stopped, and with their spears, began to move in.

And then they heard the sound of an infant’s wail, high-pitched with pain.  They looked at each other, then back at the cougar, and moved in.

The little clearing in which the infant had been left now had spatters of blood on the leaves and grass.  The hatchling, a tiny reptilian Mutant, lay on the ground shrieking, and half her tail had been severed from her body.  Claw marks covered one side.  The cougar, scenting danger, whirled around, and one of the hunters went at it with his spear.

The other, a woman, ran to the infant and looked at her.  Much blood, bad.  Claws, could be fixed.  Strange lizard thing...  But it could be fixed, maybe, and her motherly instincts would not let her leave the child there.  She knelt and grabbed the infant’s tail, making her wail, and held onto it tightly to stem the blood.

Her mate, the male hunter, fought the cougar, who had been taken by surprise by the bipedal hunters.  The male had struck a serious blow to the cougar’s throat, and still the cat fought.  Finally, the hunter managed to send his spear through the cat’s eye, and with a yowl, the cougar staggered, and then fell, dead.  The hunter let a yowl of triumph, and looked over to his mate.  Curious, he walked over to see what she was doing, cocked his head, and grunted in an approving sort of way.  The infant would likely die, but it was okay to try and save it.

The male began to make a travois to carry his kill on while his mate back to their house, carrying the sobbing infant by the tail.

The two hunters were known in other parts of the world as Brutemen.  Brutemen were sentient, if barely.  They did not speak, merely used grunts and yowls to communicate.  Brutemen were of a vaguely bovine stock, having evolved from the cows and bulls of the planet’s earlier incarnations.  They had no spoken or written language, but had a primitive, instinctive knowledge of medicine and weapons.  Their evolutionary progression was hunter-gatherer level, and they had a great deal of potential for evolution, but at this point in their species’ existence, they were little more than beasts.

The female got home first, and looked at the baby who dangled from her hand.  She did not hold the infant like this out of cruelty; Brutemen often carried their babies by a leg or the scruff of their neck, and so it only seemed normal.  She put the baby down on a pallet, and looked at the tail.  It would have to be burned.

The female looked to the fire; it would have to be built up a little bit.  She tied a thick rawhide around the baby’s tail to keep the blood from draining out of the baby’s tail, and stoked the fire hot.  She put in a rod of firerock, which could withstand the heat, and left it in there to heat.  When it was hot enough to glow, she took it out and went over to the injured baby.

The infant shrieked as the hot stone was pressed to the severed stump of her tail, but the Bruteman female took no note.  It would hurt the infant, but it would keep the infant from dying.  And that was okay.  She could soothe the infant later.

When the skin was seared enough to prevent the infant’s bleeding to death, the female took the rod away and cleaned it.  She cleansed the infant and the wounds with water, and ground up an herbal paste from her herb basket.  This would numb the wounds, and keep the bugs out.  It would help the wounds heal.  She put this paste thickly on the wounds and bandaged them with strips that had been cut from large leaves and cleansed.

Once the infant was tended, the female picked her up and cradled her in her arms, making a low crooning sound.  The exhausted infant was eventually lulled into sleep.  Later, the female’s mate arrived with his kill, and began skinning the beast and cutting its meat.  This could be cured and stored, and the skin would be prepared by the female to use.  The Brutemen did not wear clothing beyond a basic loincloth, but the tanned hides had other uses.

The hatchling did survive, and the wounds healed, over time.  The female could feed the child with her own milk.  She treated the child as her own child.  And the child grew.

The little hatchling grew as well as could be expected under primitive conditions.  She came to understand the grunts and croonings of her parents, and what they meant, and she imitated them.  When she was bad, she was disciplined by a cuff on the side of the head, much like a bear cub might by cuffed by its mother.  Once she outgrew breast milk, she ate the plants that her “parents” gathered, and the meat they hunted.  As she got older she helped gather the plants and the female’s herbs, but was left at the hut when the adults went hunting.  But she would help cut the meat and prepare the skins, once she learned how.

Her tail did not grow out, as many feral reptiles’ did, but it did heal over enough that it almost looked like it was made that way to begin with.  When she had passed three summers, she accompanied the adults on a hunt; that ended up being a mistake.  The beast they hunted was not a cat, but it was a horned creature with sharp horns sprouting from its head, and there was more than one.  While the male hurled his spear at one big male, another had crept up on them from behind, and attacked.  The little reptilian was caught in the head by its horns, and dropped to the ground.  The female turned and growled, lifting her own spear to fight the beast.

In the end, one of the beasts was driven off, the other slain, but once again the child would need to be tended.  The female took her home, leaving the male to bring home the kill.  But Brutemen were extraordinarily strong, so he would not have too much difficulty.

This time, the child remained unconscious for several days, and the only thing that made the female continue to tend her without thinking she had died was instinct.  The wound itself had healed before the child awoke, looking confused.

Things went on normally after that, though the child never made another sound after the accident.  She was naturally very confused about this, but eventually accepted it, and life continued.

It was nearly a year later when disease took her “parents”, killing them within a day after contracting it, leaving the little girl alone.  Being reptilian, she had not been susceptible to the disease, but surely she would die, as she was not old enough to fend for herself.

She was confused, at first, not knowing what was wrong with the adults.  She only knew that something was very wrong.  Soon, though, she realized that they would not ever be waking up.  She felt a sort of vague sorrow at this, but her adoptive parents had shown only protectiveness and a sort of feral affection.  And the little reptilian did not really understand the concepts of happiness and sorrow beyond their most basic meanings.

She was found several days later, half conscious from exposure and hunger, by a Thunderian from CONTROL who was checking out the planet.  She was taken to the orphanage at the trauma center and treated.

------

The radio at the Adamante Orphanage had a woman from a nearby trauma center on the other end, and she sounded less than calm.  There was a lot of noise going on in the background.  I flipped it onto visual and saw that the trauma center seemed to have been damaged.  Concerned, I greeted her and asked her what was up.  She said that they’d gotten hit by a major windstorm, and the building had been half demolished.  “Was anyone hurt?” I asked.

“Some minor injuries, but thank the gods, there were no serious ones, and no deaths.  But the thing is, our children’s center was destroyed. Most of the children have been transferred, but three recent additions need a place to be transferred to.  Do you have room in your orphanage for three more?  They’d likely be permanent, just to avoid moving them around a whole lot.”

I grinned at the woman, simply relieved that no one had gotten hurt.  “Absolutely,” I said to her.  “Send them on over, we’ve got plenty of room.”

“Fantastic,” the human woman said in relief.  “Now let me tell you what we’ve got.  We’ve got a Thunderian boy who is missing his right leg from the knee down.  He’s been here about a month.  There is an infra sight Lunattack girl who’s blind.”  I winced.  To an infra sight, whose other senses aren’t spectacular, surely that had to be horrible.  “And last, a little reptilian girl who’s missing part of her tail and has some scars on her body.  We’re not sure from what.  She was found in the woods on Third Earth.”

“Hmmm.  All right.  Well when will you be sending them over, then?”

“Today, if possible.  I can have the van there in about a half hour.”

“Sounds great!  Good luck getting things in order over there.”

The woman smiled wearily.  “Thanks, we’re gonna need it.”  I waved as the woman disconnected, then sighed.  Why did kids have to suffer like that, anyway?  The least the gods could do, if indeed there were any, was to keep the children of the universe safe.

I brooded for a few moments before going outside to wait for the van.

I got the kids settled in soon enough, got their belongings in a trunk, and got them situated in rooms in the dorms.  The little reptilian, who looked to be about four, caught my attention fairly soon.  She seemed to like me, and I liked her, but when I asked if she would like to come home with me, she only looked up and smiled.  A quick call to the trauma center told me that she didn’t talk.

A day later, I made the decision to adopt her, and it ended up being a very good one.  I took her home, and she ended up being my ninth child.

Storm Ryder

Thunder boomed outside, and a bright flash of lightning seared its way across the sky.  Most of the little community of Glens took shelter in their homes, some even in the underground nooks that were built to protect its citizens from such weather.  All of the cubs in the community under ten years of age (and some older) hid under their beds or lay down with their hands over their ears.

All but one.

A small, six year old boy cub sat in the middle of a nearby field, his rump in the wet grass, his knees drawn up to his chest.  His solemn face, bruised from an altercation not two hours previous, looked up at the rain that pounded the lands.  This boy had a name, but it was not often used.  “Kid” was usually what he was called.  He would one day be called Storm Ryder, and so shall he be called here.

Storm Ryder was not afraid of the thunder, or the rain, or even the lethal lightning that ripped the skies open with its electricity and heat.  He knew that it would never hurt him.  The Storm was his comfort, his solace.  The Storm was his brother, and would no more hurt him than Storm Ryder would hurt himself.

When he was younger, he used to think that maybe one of the lightnings would strike him, and take him to live with his ancestors, but as he grew older, and experienced more and more storms, he grew to realize that would never happen; he had a curious connection to the Storm.  Others told him it was just luck, that it was not common for a person to be struck by lightning, but Storm Ryder’s heart knew better.

He was not sure why it was that way, for surely there were others that were not so lucky.  Perhaps it was that the cub loved the Storm, deep in his heart, and the Storm knew this.  From the earliest age, the cub would run out into the rain to enjoy its patter on his face, or giggle when a big boom of thunder scared him.  And later, when Papa died and Mama changed, he would go out to receive the Storm’s comfort.

Storm Ryder sighed, listening to the booms and catching the flashes of light from above.  This storm would be a bad one, he knew.  Maybe even some people would be hurt or even killed.  He hoped not.  Certainly there would be floods, and likely lightning damage to the trees that were ready to return to the earth.

Papa had been dead now a year, and Mama had turned mean.  Papa had died when the cliff he had been working on had crumbled, killing four men and five women.  They had been gathering in a crop of Gummiberries at the time.

Storm Ryder did not know why Mama had begun to hate him, but he was certain she did.  Why else would she yell at him every day, for the smallest things?  Why else would she slap his face when she was angry?  Why would she curl her lip whenever Storm Ryder tried to do something to make her happy?

There was only one picture of Papa in the house, and it was hidden away in Storm’s room, under his bed.  When Papa died, Mama had torn up or burned all of Papa’s pictures, and even the portrait that had hung above the table in the kitchen.  Storm Ryder rather thought that Mama was angry at Papa for leaving her, even though it hadn’t been his fault.  Sometimes Storm Ryder would think that maybe Mama’s heart had been hurt, and that’s why she acted like she did, but surely by now it should be healed?  The small cub could not understand why a wound, even a heart wound, would remain open so long.

He looked down at his soggy fur, which was light ivory, and felt the mop of fur on his head, which was the same blue as a good-weather sky.  His papa had those colors in his fur, too, although the cub did not remember him very well.  He had his picture to remind him.  Maybe that was why Mama did not like him, because he looked like Papa?  Maybe it reminded her?

Mama had struck her cub that night, and more than once.  Storm Ryder had not meant to spill his milk. He even said he would clean it up!  But Mama had been very mad, and so Storm Ryder ran into the fields.  It would storm soon, he had noticed, and so he sat down to wait for it.

It often happened that way; when Storm Ryder was very, very scared or unhappy, it would storm outside.  “Thanks,” he said quietly to it.  A quick burst of lightning and the accompanying rumble of thunder told the cub that his thanks had been heard.

Mama was asleep by the time the Storm had left, and the cub crept back into their home.  That was good.  If Storm Ryder was quiet, he could slip into bed without being yelled at or hit.  And he was very good at being quiet.

Storm Ryder turned seven, and then eight, and Mama’s heart wound never seemed to close.  In fact, it got wider, and longer, and most of all, deeper.  Storm Ryder was happy to be at school, or in the fields, or in the Storm, for he was sure that Mama hated him, too, maybe even more than Papa.  More than once, he had heard her say that it was only cruel fate that Storm Ryder was allowed to stay on this earth, while Papa was taken from her. Maybe she never really liked Storm Ryder to begin with.

Mama’s hands got meaner, too, and began to hit harder, and more often.  Storm Ryder spent as much time as he could outside, and luckily, Mama was just fine with this.  The less she had to see of him, the better.  And it was okay with Storm Ryder, too.  The less he saw of Mama, the fewer chances she had to hit him, or even beat him if she was very angry.

Not many bears of the Glen or the Barbics struck their children.  Most Gummies treasured their cubs above all else.  But they were mortal, too, and subject to the hurts and mistakes of mortals.  But because of this, Storm Ryder’s bruises did not go unnoticed forever.

One day, during an afternoon of stormy weather, footsteps across the soggy field caught Storm Ryder’s attention.  He stood up, cocking his head, as three figures approached him.  They were adults, all of them, and seemed to be heading for him.  He was not frightened.  Even Mama did not frighten him unless she was in the middle of hurting him.  Mostly, she only made Storm Ryder very sad.  And so this afternoon, he was only very curious.

As the adults came closer, dressed in rain gear and carrying umbrellas, he recognized one as the bear who ran a grocery shop, and another as the lady who taught his classes at the school.  The third, he was not sure of.

“Hello,” said his teacher, smiling a little sadly at him.

“Hello,” said Storm quietly, giving her a curious look.

“Please come with us,” she said.  “We must talk with you of something very serious.”

Baffled, Storm Ryder did follow her, followed her to his house, where to his surprise, he saw a trunk with his belongings sitting on the living room floor.  He did not have many belongings, as he had outgrown the toys of his very early childhood, and since then, Mama had gotten him very little.

Mama was there also, and she did not look at her cub.

The talk was, indeed, serious.  Seemed that the various adults of community had realized that Storm Ryder was being abused, and would not stand for such, and had gone to Mama’s house to confront her.  Mama and the adults had talked, and though Mama offered no reason for her violence, she did say that she did not care if they took her son; she was well quit of him.  The adults told Storm Ryder that he would be taken to an orphanage, run by a Barbic lady who loved children.  A place where he would be well taken care of, and never hit by an adult.  A place where he could maybe be adopted from by a mother or father who would love him and take care of him.

Storm Ryder supposed that he should feel sad, but he wasn’t, really.  He loved his mother somewhere in his heart, but had stopped wanting her to love him a long time ago.  He didn’t like her very much, either, and only saw her at mealtimes, if that.  And he knew that she did not want him.  He nodded at the adults, and said that he would like to go to this orphanage.

And so he did.  His few belongings were sealed up in his trunk, and he was taken to the Gummi Bear Adoption Agency, where he was settled in and given a bunk, and a place for his things.  He was looked over by a Healer, to make sure that he was not hurt or ill, and found to be in good health.  And there he lived for almost a year.  He played with the other cubs, made friends with the adults, and was happy enough.  He even got to go and visit his storms when they were not too severe.  Although when they got violent, he was always brought inside.  The cub knew the Storm would never harm him, but he supposed that the adults did not, and wanted to keep him safe.  And so neither the cub nor the Storms minded.

---

I had known Jade and Ulisa for a while, since they adopted from my orphanage, and I knew they had one.  But it was not until recently that I began to visit.  The Gummi Bear Adoption Agency was where I met Haven, who became my fifth child.  I had made friends with other cubs, however, and there were two that seemed to have caught my heart.

I met Archer first, a little Glen Gummi (who I suspected might have been raised by Barbics), but his best friend was a cub I had not yet met.  I had planned on adopting Archer, but as I did not want to take him from his best friend, began getting to know him, as well.  And before I knew it, I had decided to adopt them both.

Archer and the cub who ended up being called Storm Ryder were both willing to be adopted by me, which made me quite happy.  (And Haven was pleased to have other Gummi siblings!)  And so Archer and Storm Ryder became my sixth and seventh children.  I never dreamed I would have so large a family, but I would not trade them for the world.  Any of them.